Don't Cry for Me
by CeCe Away
Summary: Jo found Dean sprawled facedown in the dirt. Written for the samdean otp mini-bang 2011. Not a ghost at all, but something much much worse the youngest Winchester is going to have to deal with on his own if he wants to keep his brother alive.
1. Chapter 1

Usual disclaimers apply

**Don't Cry for Me**

"I don't know, Dean." Sam stepped over the broken glass. Every window in the run-down house had been shattered. "Something's off. It just doesn't seem like a vengeful spirit."

Dean wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of decay overtaking the dusty parlor. Moonlight stole inside, illuminating white sheets thrown over chairs and tables. "All the signs point to it. The reports of locals suddenly going insane—six to date—all bat shit crazy enough to hara-kiri themselves. Come on, sounds like a malevolent ghost getting his jollies off around here to me. Six, Sam. Tell me how six people in one little town all kill themselves in the space of two weeks without a nasty spirit influencing them?"

"Yeah, okay. You're right." Sam pumped his shotgun.

Kid didn't look convinced.

"Tell you what." Dean tapped the end of his own sawed-off. "I'll keep my dagger unsheathed in case it's something besides a spirit. Which it isn't."

"Guess we'll know soon enough," Sam said. "Up or down?"

"I'll take the cellar. You search the second floor, then meet back here and we'll sweep the main floor together." Dean glanced at Sam's back as the young hunter headed toward the stairway. "Call out if you find anything."

Without looking back, Sam flicked out an exaggerated salute. Dean grinned. Bossing the kid around never got old.

He tried several doors off the kitchen before he found the cellar. Why an angry spirit would want to hang out here was beyond him, but they'd pieced together that at least four of the suicide victims had come here sometime during the month—one as a realtor, two as potential buyers, and another stopped by to give an estimate for refurbishing. So far it was the only thing any of the vics had in common.

Slipping out his penlight, Dean flicked it on. The little beam barely penetrated the darkness down into the slender stairwell. His first step down squeaked across the old noisy wood and footsteps rustled below. Yep, something was definitely down there.

Dean pumped his gun and descended the stairs that squeaked and squealed beneath each step, which didn't matter since the ghost or whatever was in the cellar would have already heard him. His light bounced around spiderwebs and shelves holding dust-coated jars of preserves or something before shooting across a face.

Jolting, Dean dragged the light back to the figure and the identical shotgun that was pointed at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Tracking a specter." Jo tipped her head, making her ponytail fall to the side."Nasty one by the looks of it."

"Well, leave. We got here first."

"I don't think so."

Dean lowered his gun. "You don't think you're gonna leave or don't think we got here ahead of you?"

"Neither." The girl's shotgun lowered.

A frown pulled at Dean's mouth. She looked good. Long legs snug in black pants. Tight blue T-shirt beneath a short-cropped leather jacket. She could give Catwoman a run for the money any day. "Your mom know you're here?"

Brown eyes narrowed. "How else am I supposed to gain any experience? I'm a Hunter. Same as you."

"On your own?"

No, I brought my baby sitter along. Geez."

Dean did not like her hunting alone. Not one little bit. Sure he knew it was in her blood and she was going to do it anyway, despite Ellen's wishes, but…hell, he just didn't like it. That's all.

"You're not ready. You need to go home."

"Says who? You?" One hip cocked out, almost in defiance and Dean couldn't help staring at the curve of it.

"Someone has to say it."

"Pluuh…eease. You and Sam have been hunting at a far younger age than I am. If you haven't noticed I'm a grown woman."

Oh, he'd noticed.

"Get yourself a partner then. Hell, hunt with Ellen for all I care. Ash even. Just don't go it alone. Every Hunter needs someone to watch their back."

"Cause that worked out so well for my dad." Jo flinched, at what she'd let pour out.

Dean went very still. "Ya know what. Never mind." He headed toward a darker part of the cellar.

Jo scurried after him. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Sounded like you meant it to me."

"Just stop. I'm sorry, okay. You know I don't see you like that."

"Fine." Dean spun back to face her. Whatever, but Sam and I are hunting this spirit so you need to back off."

"I am not backing off."

"Yes. You are."

"Look." Jo lifted her chin. "I put a lot of effort into tracking all the signs. It's my first solo and I'm not returning without even trying."

"Meaning you don't want to go back to the roadhouse with your tail tucked beneath your legs."

"Fine. Yes. Whatever." She tossed her head back. "I've got to prove to her I can do this."

"It's not about whether you can do it not for Ellen"

"Then I've got to prove it to myself. I don't care, but I _am_ salt and burning this ghost."

Dean swung the shotgun up to rest over his shoulder. He understood the need to prove yourself. He also knew if Jo didn't do it on this hunt, she'd just run off to another. "Fine, you can stay. But, sweetheart, we're doing this together." Where he could keep an eye on her. "I'm in charge. You do everything I say." Oh her eyes flared wide at that. Maybe this could be fun after all. "Deal?"

She glared at him. He could practically see the cogs of her mind weighing options. Finally her gaze met his. "Deal."

#

Basement checked out, they trudged up the stairs. Jo's shoulder bag swung against her hip. Dean wondered what kind of arsenal she had in her little bag of tricks.

Sam was waiting for him on the main floor. "Jo?" His forehead scrunched and he looked questioningly at Dean.

Dean shrugged.

Jo's features tightened. "Sam." Guess she still wasn't over that whole demon possession thing. Awkward.

"Upstairs clear?" Dean barked out at his brother, intentionally bossy so Jo would understand the hierarchy.

Sam seemed relieved to have something else to focus on. "Nothing upstairs. "You?"

Dean flicked his gaze toward the girl. "Well, nothing supernatural."

Jo rolled her eyes.

"Jo, what are you doing here?" Sam asked.

"Same thing as you." Jo grinned then and it made all sorts of feelings jump around in Dean's gut.

Sam frowned. "What data did you use?"

"Newspaper reports. I chatted up the ME. Been sweeping the EMF, but the readings are surprisingly faint, but with the sudden rash of suicides… It all points to—"

"A malevolent spirit." The skin between Sam's eyes bunched as he frowned.

Jo tilted her head again. "You think it's something else?"

"I don't know. It's just…a feeling."

"Sam, I told you," Dean said. "If it waddles like a duck…"

"I know, just keep an open mind."

Dean pulled his handgun from the waistband at the back of his jeans. "I brought the Beretta, didn't I?" Sam's look of relief was worth bringing the extra weapon, though Dean doubted he'd be using it. He shoved it back into his waistband. "Now, can you two compare geek notes later so we can search the rest of this place? Sam, you finish this floor. Jo and I will check outside."

"There's three of us now." Jo drew her EMF from her jacket. "Why do I have to go with you?"

Because he didn't want her running into an angry spirit on her own. "'Cause I'm the boss. You take the front yard." Which he and Sam already scanned on their way in. "I'll take the back." Where he could get to her quick. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic." She spun on her heel and flounced toward the front door, leaving Sam and Dean staring after her.

"This is going to be a fun job," Dean muttered before heading in the opposite direction.

#

The old wrap-around porch groaned beneath Dean's boots. He quickly stepped off before the rotting boards splintered beneath him. A slight breeze ruffled weedy grass against his calves. The estate was huge and overgrown. A few rickety out-buildings and sheds lined the edge of the property in front of a dark copse of trees.

Pulling out his own EMF, Dean walked toward the shell of an ancient barn that leaned to one side so bad it looked as though one hard shake could topple it over. Nothing registered on the meter. "All right, ghostie, where are you hiding? Give me some hint of where you've gotten off to."

He made a wide sweep of the yard, stopping near the trees to check the readings again. A cold breeze blew across the back of his neck, making the tiny hairs stand on end. Dean peered into the thick darkness between the trees. He heard the faint sound of water splashing over rocks. There must be a stream within the trees close by. Dean listened a moment longer before turning his back to the little grove and moving on.

Another sound stopped him in his tracks.

A woman's sorrow filled crying tingled along his skin, a soft grief-stricken keen that speared straight to Dean's bones.

He turned back to the forest, hesitating for only a second before he walked into the thicket. Moonlight barely reached the ground. Ducking beneath drooping branches, Dean followed mournful cries. Pocketing the EMF, he lifted his shotgun.

The weeping grew louder.

Dean came around the trunk of a large tree and saw her.

She knelt on the ground over a wooden bucket holding sudsy water, long grey skirt flowing outward across the ground. Head bowed, shoulders shaking, she wept as she scrubbed fabric across one of those old-fashion washboards.

Kay, so salt and burn, but they needed to figure out who she was to find her bones or whatever item held her here. That meant talking, which really was more up Sam's alley. At least for now, she didn't seem aggressive—just incredibly sad. Which, damn, he'd almost prefer her attacking. Weeping women, alive or dead, were just . . . geez, where was his brother's tender self when he needed him? Dean lowered the shotgun.

Well, here goes nothing. Actually he was glad Sam wasn't here to see what a softie he was about to be.

"Ma'am?" Dean stepped closer.

The woman stopped scrubbing. With her head lowered, he couldn't see her features behind the fall of her long silver-white hair.

Okay, then. The awkward silence strained between them. Taking a chance, Dean crouched down, still a few feet away.

He settled the shotgun loosely across his knees. "I want to help you."

She remained quiet and began moving the fabric up and down on the washboard again. Her fingers were red. Was she bleeding?

Stretching his neck forward, Dean looked into the washbasin, into the pink water. The woman started crying again, her slim body shaking as she scrubbed the clothes with more force, blood seeping from the material. What? Dean flinched. She was scrubbing a black shirt. He could barely make out some kind of picture or logo within the wrinkles. Wait. Was that a concert T-shirt?

Dean looked down at his own chest, at the same logo. He sprang to his feet, whipping the sawed-off up. "Sonuvabitch!"

Too late! The woman was on him, thumbs digging into his temples, long fingers curling around his head. Faces inches apart, red glowing eyes stared into Dean's, holding him powerless within the intensity of her gaze. A violent wind erupted around them, pulling at the strands of her silver hair, whipping her dress around their legs.

Her head dipped to the side, toward Dean's ear, and she let out a thin screech, low and penetrating, somewhere between the wail of a woman and shriek of an owl. It pierced every fiber of his body, drilling through his organs like the buzz of an electrical shockwave.

A scream erupted from Dean's chest, stealing the remainder of his breath with it.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Jo jerked at the scream.

"Dean!"

Shotgun at the ready, she ran around the side of the house just as Sam burst out of the back door. "Where?"

"I don't know!" Looking around the grounds, Jo didn't see anything around the out-buildings.

She briefly met Sam's gaze before they both took off running toward the trees. That was the only place Dean could be. At the tree line they slowed, shotguns up and ready. Sam signaled for her to go right. He'd take left.

Nodding, she moved silently across the ground, heart pounding. Damn her pride, she should have stayed with him. All senses alert, the faint sound of trickling water drifted across the quiet air. She followed it to a small stream. There was no sign of Dean anywhere, so she angled back the way she had come, hoping to pick up his trail. If she could figure out the spot he entered the grove, she could find him.

There. A footprint. Another. Definitely the tread of Dean's boots. Her pulse gained in speed as she followed the trail, practically jogging with her gaze glued to the ground. Dean, where are you?

She found him sprawled facedown in the dirt. "Dean!" She ran, sliding to her knees beside him. "Dean!" She jostled the back of his shoulder, but he didn't respond. Placing two fingers at his neck, she felt for a pulse while she scanned the area. Except for hers and Dean's tracks, there wasn't any sign that anyone else was around. No disturbed foliage or broken limbs. Just the regular signs of birds and small rodents. Though nothing was in sight, the atmosphere felt wrong, old and ancient, like something lived within the shadows. Dean's pulse beat steady and strong beneath her fingers.

What could have happened? "Come on, Dean, wake up. Sam!" she shouted. A whistle answered in reply.

"Dean." She nudged him again with the same unsatisfactory result. "Geez, you're stubborn even when you're unconscious." Her chest tightened like bands of steel compressing around her. She moved her palms over Dean's arms, his shoulders and torso, searching for injuries, her fingers skimming over smooth muscle.

"Dean!" Sam ran out from around a tree, slamming to a stop. Even in the low light, Jo had never seen such open fear in anyone's features. "Dean?" Worried eyes met hers. "Is he-?" He stopped, swallowed. "How bad?"

"I don't know." Jo went back to looking for an indication of what was wrong. She slipped her hands into his hair, feeling for wounds or bumps. "I can't find anything, but he won't wake up."

Sam lowered to the ground on the other side of his sibling, his features revealing so much worry she felt almost like an intruder. Setting his shotgun down within easy reach, Sam rolled Dean over onto his back, letting Jo take his older brother's head into her lap. She watched quietly as Sam also felt Dean's pulse and checked his breathing, and then began his own search for injuries.

She studied him silently, her heart breaking a little at the raw worry on his features. Her gaze lowered to Dean, the realization of how much danger—how many times these two guys had been hurt over the years—sank in like a collapsing well to the pit of her stomach.

Sam shook his head, obviously not finding the source of Dean's unconsciousness either. "Dean, bro, come on." He tapped his cheek. "Quit being a stubborn ass. Get up." Sam lifted Dean's eyelid, frowning at what he saw. At her angle, Jo couldn't tell, but from Sam's expression she guessed there was too much dilation.

He glanced around, his quick gaze obviously noting the absence of a struggle or another's tracks as she had earlier. "We need to leave."

"You feel it too?"

Sam's gaze slid to hers, held steady a moment before he nodded. Jo looked back into the shadows. A wave of protectiveness washed over her. She lifted her chin. _You can't have him_.

"Can you get my and Dean's guns?" Sam jerked her attention back to him.

Jo nodded, even as he pulled Dean from her lap and ducking low, shifted Dean's dead weight across his shoulder to carry him fireman style. Once he was up, Sam took off, leaving Jo to cover their backs.

Dean's arm swayed back and forth with Sam's steady pace. They jogged around the side of the large old house and Sam immediately headed toward the Impala.

"Put him in my car." Jo headed toward the other side of the old carriage house where she'd parked. Her lips quirked up. No wonder they hadn't known she was here before them.

Not hearing footsteps behind, she glanced back. Sam stood in the middle of the driveway, indecisive. She got that he didn't want to separate from his brother and they couldn't leave either of the vehicles here, but too bad, Dean didn't need to be jostled around in that rusty bucket of bolts, driven by a freaked out little brother. Sam was keeping calm now, but she also saw how tight his jaw was clenched, keeping it together.

"Sorry, no. Get the back door for me." Sam headed straight to the black beast of a car and waited for her to get the door for him.

Fine, whatever. Apparently both Winchesters had to have their way, though she conceded the large backseat was much better for an injured hunter. Truth was, she just wanted Dean with her, had to know he was all right during the drive.

Running to the other side of the car, she climbed in and helped Sam slide his brother across the seat.

Each half-in and half-out of their respective doorways, they both stared down at Dean. He'd been unconscious a long time.

"Dean," Jo whispered, smoothing sweaty hair back. Sam remained quiet as though hoping she could bring his brother out of whatever had a hold of him.

There was no response, not as much as an eyelash flutter.

Sam squeezed Dean's arm before easing backward out of the door. He came around the car and was next to Jo when she climbed out.

"Follow me. I'll find a hotel." He frowned down at her.

"I already have a room. You follow me."

Sam nodded. Where he looked so confident while he carried his brother moments ago, he now seemed like a lost little boy. Her heart pulled in her chest. _Oh Dean. You better be okay. _

#

Sam white-knuckled the steering wheel as he followed behind Jo's little rental.

Jo pulled into the parking lot of a posh hotel. Nice car, higher-class hotel. Just how much did she take off the Hunter's at the roadhouse, playing poker? She backed into a spot right up front while Sam had to search farther back in the lot to find an open space.

Getting out of the car, Sam yanked open the back door.

"Did he wake up at all?" Jo's voice rang out behind him.

Sam splayed his hand over Dean's chest, holding it there until he felt the soft rise and fall. "Dean, this sleeping princess act is getting old." He shifted Dean's legs out of the car and took hold of his upper arms, and pulled Dean up to begin sliding him out. Dean's head rolled forward and he moaned.

Sam and Jo both froze. "Dean?" they exclaimed at the same time.

There was no more response, but that slight sound had been the best thing Sam had ever heard, easing the hard weight he'd carried in his chest a bit.

From the other side, Jo helped slide Dean closer to Sam. "Wait here a minute." She slipped away.

Sam blew out a breath, wondering where she went, and let Dean's face fall onto his shoulder while he manhandled him farther out the door. It was such an awkward tight fit, maneuvering floppy legs and arms. Sam jolted when Jo spoke right behind him.

"I told you to wait."

"What?" He glanced to the side, saw the luggage cart she had rolled out from the lobby. "Oh." That would definitely make things easier.

Jo slid her jacket off and folding it, placed it at one end of the low cart. "Think we can somehow roll him onto that?"

"Yep." He planned on carrying Dean over his shoulder again, but this would work.

"Okay." Jo squeezed next to Sam to help him and the cart started rolling.

"I can get him," Sam said. "You just hold the cart still."

With Jo holding the luggage cart steady, Sam wrestled his older sibling's dead weight out of the car and let gravity take over, guiding Dean's headlong roll onto the cart. Head pillowed on Jo's jacket, Dean's limbs splayed on either side along the pavement. Jo drew his arms up to lay across his chest while Sam tried to bend his brother's long legs, finally lifting them to rest along the crossbars at the end when they kept flopping off the cart. He looked ridiculous, which would be funny if Sam wasn't so worried.

Together they wheeled him inside the hotel, receiving a bland look from the young front desk clerk. "Designated drivers." Jo gave him a sheepish smile as they crossed the lobby toward the elevators and the guy's face reddened. "This one can't hold his liquor."

The clerk grinned. Sam supposed two young adults hauling their drunk-off-his-ass friend upstairs could liven up a dull nightshift or maybe the guy just thought Jo was hot. He kept glancing at her while they waited for the elevator to arrive.

The doors slid open and they rolled Dean and the cart inside. As soon as the elevator pinged their arrival at the fourth floor, Dean groaned, slapped around and rolled off the cart.

"Dean!" Sam stopped the cart from rolling into his legs. Trying to pull himself up with palms on the unstable cart, Dean blinked up at Sam like the fluorescent lighting was too bright. "Hell are we?"

Sam laughed, the sudden relief at having his brother awake and talking, making him loopy. He shoved his foot against the door as it started to slide closed.

Jo crouched at Dean's back, pulling him up beneath his armpits. "Come on, big guy, we're going for a little ride."

Dean tilted his head back to look at her, forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "On that?"

"Mmm-hmm." Jo smiled prettily.

"You pushing?"

"I thought I would." Her lips quirked.

Dean's mouth puckered. "Yeah, 'cause you're pushy." He shoved up to his feet, swayed as though he might crash right back down, but Sam's arm shot out to steady him.

"You good?"

Dean blinked several times. "I'm always good."

Jo frowned at Sam. Sam shrugged. "Says he good."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Prove it." She let go of Dean to put her hands on her hips.

Dean straightened out and took a step forward. His legs buckled and he would have fallen if Sam hadn't hauled him back up.

"Stubborn idiots," she muttered and pushed the luggage cart into the hallway.

Grinning, Sam pulled Dean's arm over his shoulder and dragged him out of the elevator. Dean was completely stubborn, but Sam was grateful for it. It was that stubbornness that had him on his feet, rather than giving in to whatever had taken him down.

Jo had her room door open by the time they caught up to her. Sam stood with Dean in the doorway, not sure where to set Dean down.

"Put him on the bed," Jo directed, scooping up a bra and some kind of shimmery nightgown as well as a towel that had been deposited earlier across the unmade bed.

Sam lowered Dean to the side of the mattress, though his brother didn't seem inclined to lay down. Sam sat beside him.

"Dean, what happened?"

Jo dumped the small first aid kit between them.

Dean scowled. "I don't need that."

"You were face down in the dirt when I found you."

"I'm fine. No scrapes. No nothing. Just a little shut-eye."

Jo opened the lid. "For half-an-hour? That's not normal."

Dean's cock-sure grin eased out. "I'm not normal."

"Understatement of the year." Jo pulled out a pill bottle. "At least take aspirin?"

Dean opened his palm and Sam went over to the little sink above the mini-fridge to get him a glass of water.

Handing the glass over, he asked again. "So what happened?"

Dean took the pills and shook his head. "I don't know. I heard this lady crying so I followed her into the trees, then she whammied me."

"Whammied how?"

Dean pressed his fingers to his forehead, rubbing circles. "She grabbed my head and lights out. That quick."

Sam didn't like the sound of that, didn't like supernatural things messing with his brother's head. "So, definitely a ghost?"

"I thought so at first, tried to talk to her."

"She say anything?" Jo asked.

"Nope. Went from weeping to eyes flashing red and that's all she wrote." Dean rubbed his head again. Had to be throbbing.

"Kay." Sam frowned. That wasn't much to go on. Weeping ghost with red eyes who attacked his brother without provocation and so far was the only clue they had to the recent suicides. Maybe she had committed suicide herself? Could account for the crying. "Why don't you rest. I'm gonna get the computer from the car and see if I can dig something up. Hey, what-type era would you say the woman was dressed for?" Could narrow down the search while looking through obituaries on suspicious deaths.

Dean scooted back toward the headboard and stretched his legs out on the bed. He shook his head. "Not sure. Early nineteen hundreds maybe. She was wearing a long dress. Could fit a lot of time periods."

Sam frowned. Not much help there.

"Hey, Sam. Don't stay up much longer." Dean yawned. "Research can wait for the morning. Got the feeling we need to stay sharp for this one. Something's off."

"Sure thing, Mom." Sam stared at Dean a moment before sliding his gaze to Jo. Things never were good whenever Dean felt like something was off too. Which meant Sam wouldn't get much sleep until he figured out just what was going on.

#

Dean snapped awake like he'd taken a plunge in an icy river. Something stirred against his thigh. Easing up on the bed, he saw Jo sleeping near the foot of the mattress, her forehead pressed against his leg. A smile tugged at his mouth and he let his fingers run through the silky spill of her hair while he glanced around the room.

Sam had fallen asleep in the overstuffed chair, long legs propped on another chair he'd pulled over from the desk. His face was illuminated in the glow of the digital clock on the desk. 4:01: Still early. The laptop lay dark on his lap.

Feeling gritty, probably from being thrown face first into the dirt last night, Dean scooted carefully off the bed, trying not to awaken Jo. She murmured and turned to the other side and Dean watched her for a moment, all sorts of unwanted feelings jumbling around in his belly he didn't quite know what to do with. She had wanted to tend to him last night, had slept near him…

Dean tamped any tenderness down. He'd been hurt last night, out of it. Jo had a caring nature. _Don't make anything more out of it._ Dean pulled back, not willing to open himself up to her.

He turned away, spied his duffel near the door next to Sam's. A shower, change of clothes and he'd be back to his old self, better able to deal with this oddball case and… His gaze slipped back to the sleeping girl on the bed. Damn. The sooner they got rid of this ghost and packed Jo back to the Roadhouse, the better.

He still felt a little woozy. Yeah, a shower would definitely help. He grabbed up his bag and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

The hot water felt great, sluicing over him, loosening tight muscles. By the time he shut off the water and toweled off, he felt so much better—ready to tackle the day and get rid of a crazy weeping ghostie.

Draping the towel around his hips, Dean stepped out of the tub/shower combo and lifted his duffel onto the sink counter. He pulled out a pair of jeans and boxers and rooted around for a shirt when his hand swept over his small pocketknife.

Frosty air curled around him, an abrupt change from the warm humidity from the shower. He wasn't alone. His eyes snapped up to the fogged up mirror.

There was nothing but his own hazy reflection. He spun around, clicking open the blade. Still nothing.

He stared at the short blade, shiny in the swirls of fog. Goose pimples raised along his flesh. He stared and stared, imagined turning the blade in his hand and jamming it in his stomach, felt warm blood take the chill away as it flowed down his skin and soaked into the white towel, making pretty flowery patterns.

Dean flinched, dropped the knife where it clattered on the floor, spinning, spinning. He wanted to grab it back up, slide it across his arms…

What? No! He'd never had thoughts like this. This wasn't him. He pressed his hands to his stomach. No wounds. Nothing there. He hadn't done it. He wouldn't do something like that. Had never thought it.

Weeping streamed along the heavy air, an inconsolable sobbing coating his skin, which grew steadily louder, more intense until shrieking howls pierced his brain, stabbing his head over and over. He sank to his knees, his fist curling over the blade, cutting into his palm.

_Make it stop. Make it stop_. He wanted to jam the knife in his eye to make it stop. This wasn't him. "Sam!" he gasped out, flinging the knife away where it spun across the floor. He lifted his hand to his head, leaving a bloody handprint on the tile that did a slow rotation. Everything was spinning, his vision graying around the edges. The shrieking kept drilling and drilling inside his head.

This was wrong. It was all so wrong. Stop it. Stop it. Stop the noise.

"Sam!"

He squeezed his head between his hands, fought the urge to smack it against the tile to make the screeching woman shut up. Just shut up! Shut the freak up!

Steps pounded outside the bathroom. "Dean!" The door opened, slightly at first, then it slammed against the sink counter. Hands latched around Dean from behind and he felt himself hauled up backwards.

"What's going on?" Jo's voice floated from the other room.

"Don't know." Sam's tone was clipped.

Sam dragged him out of the bathroom, across the floor and up onto the bed.

"He's bleeding?" Jo again, though she sounded far away behind the shrieking, howling of the weeping woman.

"Bluuh! Make it stop." Dean pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, rolling his head back and forth.

Sam's hands circled his wrists, dragging Dean's hands away. "Stop what? What is it? Dean!"

Dean stared at his brother, willing him to somehow fix this, make her screams get out of his head, make her stop. "Do you hear it?"

"Hear what? Dean, I can't…what's going on? Talk to me."

Dean pulled up, clawing his bleeding hand into Sam's shirt. "You gotta stop her."

"I will. I just need to—Dean!"

The woman's shriek punctured through Dean's skull with such force everything exploded, went white then fizzled to blackness. His brother's shout followed him down into the abyss.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Dean!" Sam lowered Dean to the pillows when he went slack in his grip. What the hell was going on? Waking to his brother's stifled call, finding him not on the bed where he was supposed to be, but rocking on his knees on the bloody bathroom floor was freaking him out.

Jo knelt on the other side of the bed. She brought extra towels and the first aid kit. "What has he done to himself now?" Her tone was curt, but she looked worried.

"I don't know." The blood on Dean's head, chest and towel tangled around his hips seemed to be coming from a gash in his hand. It didn't look that deep. He grabbed one of the towels and lifted Dean's hand to apply pressure to the wound. Even though he was unconscious, Dean's features were tight with pain.

Jo dug out antiseptic cream and bandages from the kit. "Think it needs stitches?"

Sam lifted the towel to look. "No. It's not that deep. The small butterfly bandages should be enough." What was going on? Dean could still be suffering from his earlier smack on the head from the ghost, went to shower and blacked out, slicing his hand as he fell, but Sam didn't think so. Not with Dean asking over and over to make it stop. Make what stop?

Sam had the niggling feeling that this was connected to the ghost. The spirit had done something to his brother, or—Sam frowned—was still doing something.

He held Dean's hand steady while Jo cleaned off the blood. "Don't worry, Dean. I'll figure this out."

Jo glanced up at him, lips pressed tight, and nodded.

#

As soon as they had Dean patched up and the blood cleaned away, Jo went into the bathroom while Sam pulled the bloody towel away and wrestled sweat pants onto his brother.

Jo stared at the bloody handprint on the floor a moment before soaking a washcloth and wiping it away. She'd have to call room service to bring up more linens.

She looked around, trying to figure out what Dean sliced open his hand on, and was surprised to see the open pocketknife at the side of the toilet. That didn't make any sense. Picking it up, she noted the blood on the knife's edge and wiped it off with the washcloth. Dean had just gotten out of the shower, was in nothing but a towel…so why would he have taken his knife out? And how did he slice himself?

Dean could be a childish jerk, but he wasn't careless around weapons, even small ones like this.

Sam was right. Something weird was definitely going on.

She reentered the room and found Dean cocooned beneath the blankets and Sam sitting beside him, back against the headboard, and scowling at his laptop.

"He cut himself on this." Jo held up the pocketknife.

Sam's brows angled together, making him look young.

"Find anything?" She closed the blade and set the pocketknife on the nightstand.

Sam shook his head and glanced sideways at her. "What do you think it is?"

"Best guess, that ghost is somehow still attached to him. She may have gotten to him in the bathroom. That's why he pulled the knife."

Sam's face paled. He looked down at Dean. "If she can get to him here… We've got to salt the room."

Jo nodded. "I have a little. More in the car."

"We've got a can in the trunk." Sam set the computer aside and got up, grabbing his sneakers off the floor. "You'll watch him?" He jammed one shoe on.

"You know I will."

"Yeah," he smiled, embarrassed. "Be right back." He zipped out the door.

Jo took his place on the bed beside Dean and lifted the laptop, seeing a listing of suspicious deaths filed. She lifted a brow. Sam had obviously hacked into the local police case files. She scrolled through a few of them, looking for something to stand out. The files online only went back to the sixties. If Dean's guess about the crying woman's clothing was right, they'd have to go to the library or county records to dig through the older files and newspapers.

A knock at the door startled her. In Sam's haste he hadn't taken a keycard. The noise roused Dean and his features screwed up tight. She hated that look on his handsome face.

Setting the computer aside, she hurried to let Sam in.

"He wake up?'

"Just stirred a little. You got it?"

"Yeah." Sam handed a rusty can to Jo as he passed to get to his brother and placed a palm on Dean's forehead.

"There's no fever," she informed him.

"Yeah." Sam blew out a breath. Jo sympathized. It'd almost be better if Dean was sick, even delirious. They could deal with that better than… whatever this was. If they couldn't figure out what this ghost was doing…who knew what she wanted or for how long this would go on? Or what might happen if it stopped.

"Mmmm." Deans eyelids fluttered. Jo moved up behind Sam. Dark lashes lifted to reveal mossy green eyes. God, Dean had the most beautiful eyes. They lifted to his brother. "Sam?"

Sam knelt down to get closer. "I'm here. You okay?"

Dean's features scrunched together. "Head hurts. Lady is loud."

"Lady? Is that what you hear?"

"She's crying and screaming." Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

Jo leaned over Sam's shoulder. So it was the ghost, had to be. "Do you hear her right now?"

Dean shook his head on the pillows and opened his eyes again. He smiled sloppily. "Hey, Jo."

Warmth blossomed in her chest, pleased he was glad to see her, though he still looked completely out of it.

"Do you hear her now, Dean?" Sam repeated her question.

Dean broke the connection of their gaze and Jo felt suddenly bereft. "No. Not right now." He pinched the skin between his eyebrows. "But man, she was screaming so hard I thought my head was gonna implode. Ghost has a wicked set of lungs on her."

Sam smiled.

"We thinkin some kind of vengeful ghost still?" Dean's eyelids lifted a little, still not completely open.

Sam stood, paced across the room. "Best guess, she's what killed those vics, attached to them somehow, made them crazy—I don't know—they went to that house, probably heard the weeping just like you and now they're dead. Suicides."

Sam stopped pacing, looked at his older sibling.

"The salt will keep any spirits out." Jo knew Sam was worried. "We're not going to find any answers on the computer."

The young hunter's frown deepened. "I know." He didn't move.

Jo sighed. "Take a quick shower, I'll order up some breakfast. By then county records in this town should be opened."

One side of Dean's lip curled in amusement. "I'll come with."

"No," both Sam and Jo said.

"What?" Dean pulled up to rest on his elbows. "I'm not going to stay here."

"Yes, you are." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "Until we know who this spirit is and what she wants, you're on lockdown."

"That's stupid."

"Look. She's attached to you somehow, already got into your head, so you're not leaving."

Dean rolled his eyes. "So what? I'm supposed to let you go off and face down the crazy crying ghostie without back up? No way."

"I'm just going to county records." Sam lifted his hands in exasperation.

Jo looked back and forth between them.

Dean's Adam's apple bobbed. "Fine." He jabbed a finger in the air toward Sam. "But that's it. You bring back what you find and we'll go from there."

"That was the plan." Sam grabbed up his pack and headed toward the bathroom, muttering, "Jeez, dude. Wanna hold my hand next time I have to cross the street too?"

"I heard that." Dean tossed a pillow, missing the closing bathroom door.

#

Keeping the volume low, Jo flipped through the television channels, every now and then pausing at a station that caught her interest. Her focus kept straying to Dean, slumbering fitfully in her bed.

He'd been out for hours since they'd eaten breakfast and she'd tossed her keys to Sam. His eyes practically strained out of his sockets at the thought of taking off in her pretty little rented Porsche. She wasn't actually sure she would have been able to get him to leave his brother otherwise. The Winchester's had some serious trust issues when it came to relying on others.

She glanced back over at Dean to find him gazing blearily at her.

"Oh, hey. You're up."

He didn't say anything, just stared at her through red-rimmed eyes.

She vacated the chair to get him a glass of water and brought it over to him, his gaze tracking her the entire time.

"Dean?"

Something wasn't right. There was always some form of emotion whenever he looked at her—usually annoyance, sometimes on the verge of something else she couldn't quite decipher—but he'd never before watched her with this…void.

It was eerie. She wanted to snap him out of it. "Hey." She jostled his shoulder.

He sprang.

Quick as a snake, he grabbed her wrist, rolling her backwards as they both tumbled to the floor. Water spilled over them. The glass in her hand broke as it slammed against the wall. He pinned her to the carpet, his eyes no longer vacant, but wild and disoriented.

A jingle for toothpaste sang from the television beneath their heavy exhalations.

"Dean!" Jo shoved up against his hands trapping her wrists. Her pulse thrummed hard through her veins. "Dean, snap out of it!"

His eyes flicked up to a spot on the floor just over her head. Jo wrenched her neck to see what had captured his attention. The jagged bottom of the broken glass. It looked like a small crystal crown of razor points.

In one fluid move, Dean let go of her, grabbed the glass and plunged it toward his heart.

"No!" With a speed born of fear, Jo shoved his arm forward on its path, making him miss his bare chest. The glass blazed across his shoulder and flew out of his hand.

As though it was the most important thing in the world, Dean twisted after it, scrabbling on all fours across the carpet.

Heart roaring, Jo leaped onto his back. He was scaring the crap out of her, so intent on harming himself. There's no way she was letting him get that broken piece of glass. "Dean! No! Stop it! Dean!"

He rolled her beneath him, but she wiggled out, grabbing his legs as he went for the broken glass again. He slapped out, attempting to peel her off, but she held firm, lunging up from her knees to stop him. They rolled in a tangle of arms and legs. Jo's head thumped on the carpet. No more games. She threw a fist toward his jaw, wincing as his head rocked back and threw a leg over his hips, shoving him over.

Straddling his waist, Jo blocked his flailing arms. God he was strong, but sloppy, uncoordinated in whatever daze had a hold of him. She slapped him, hoping to knock him back to his senses. "Dean!"

Fingers gouged into her arms, plunged into her hair. She could hear it ripping from her scalp.

_Ow ow ow ow!_ Her neck was being pulled sideways. "Dean!" She really didn't want to do this, but he was leaving her no choice. Grabbing his head at the temples, she lifted and then slammed his head on the floor. Once. Twice. His beautiful eyes rolled back into his head and his hands dropped, pulling her down as fingers dragged in her hair.

"Sorry. Sorry. I'm so sorry." She smoothed a palm down his still cheek, almost expected the heat of fever, though he was merely sweaty and warm from exertion. Blood smeared across his shoulder and arm from where the jagged glass had scraped across him.

Jo glanced at the broken glass, rocking on the floor a foot away and a knot pulled tight in her belly. She shied away from the image of Dean trying to plunge that into his heart. She pushed sweaty hair back from his smooth forehead. What was going on?

#

Sam stepped out of the hotel elevator with bags from the deli down the road from county records when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Shuffling the bags into one hand, he pulled his phone out and read the display.

Dean.

He grinned, relieved that his brother must be awake and okay and probably bored from being cooped up inside. Sam placed the cell to his ear. "Dean."

"You need to get back here." Jo was on Dean's phone, worry coating her tone.

"I'm just down the hall." Sam shoved the phone back into his pocket and took off running. The door yanked inward as he got there with Jo standing inside, looking like she'd gone ten rounds with a cyclone. Her clothes were askew and her hair fluffed out.

"What happened?" he asked, rushing past the girl to see what was going on with his brother.

Dean lay unconscious on the floor, hands tied together and to one leg of the overstuffed chair with strips of a torn towel. Another downy strip kept his ankles together. Watery blood dribbled from his shoulder where a jagged line ran across it. Next to Dean sat his cell phone and the ice bucket with a pink-tinged towel draped across it. Jo had obviously stopped washing the blood from the wound when she went to open the door.

Sam dropped the sandwich bags on the bed and lowered to his brother's side, inspecting the wound, and asked again, "What happened?"

"The salt isn't keeping whatever has a hold of him out of the room. He woke up, or at least I think he did. He wasn't himself, Sam. He tried to jam that glass—" Jo pointed to a sharp-pointed bottom half of a glass on top of the tall TV cabinet. "—into his chest."

Sam flinched.

Jo paced back and forth between the side of the bed and the chair, shoving her tousled hair back from her face in agitation. "He wouldn't stop. I had to knock him out. Had to tie him up. I couldn't lift him onto the bed." She glanced down at Dean, her throat working.

Sam got up, walked around his brother and grabbed Jo by the arms to stop her pacing.

She hissed sharply.

Brows rising, Sam lifted the short sleeves of Jo's shirt up a bit where the early stages of dark bruises the shape of oval fingers were forming.

"Jo." Sam felt ill and knew Dean would feel worse about it when he came back to his senses. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She brushed her sleeve down and his hand away, features pinching with annoyance. "No. I've been banged up worse than this. What are we going to do about Dean?"

"Get him on the bed for one thing."

"No kidding, professor."

Sam lifted a brow, unaccustomed to Jo like this. Apparently she and Dean had more in common than they thought. They both covered worry with snapping sarcasm.

"What'd you find out?" Her fists rode up her hips to her waist where they planted themselves in a challenging pose relaying _you-better-have-found-out-how-to-fix-him_.

"Not much. Help me get him on the bed." Sam untied the strips from the chair leg. "There were only three suicides within the late 1800s, early 1900s—that there were records of. A dozen deaths that looked suspicious." He had notes on a folded paper in his back pocket to go over again.

Sam lifted Dean from beneath his shoulders while Jo took his legs and they lifted him to the bed. Sam checked Dean's bindings, making sure there was enough circulation. He hated this. He didn't want to have to secure his brother to the bed, but… Sam's gaze strayed over the cuts on Dean's shoulder. If he had plunged that glass into his heart… He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth.

"Sam?"

Dean's eyelids fluttered.

Sam sat on the bed, hip next to Dean's. "Hey. You with us?"

Dark lashes lifted, revealing glassy green orbs. His brows creased as his hands tried to pull apart. "Loud. Make her stop." His gaze slid to Sam like a plea.

"You hear her now?"

Dean brought his bound hands up to cover his face.

Sam pulled them back down. "Dean, talk to me. What's happening?"

Dean's head rolled on the pillow. He tried wrenching his hands apart, angled his fingers toward his temples.

Sam covered his ears for him, pressing his head tight between his palms and leaned close over his brother. "Is she here now?" He glanced back at Jo standing at the end of the bed.

Dean's back arched, tremors rode through him. "She's screaming. She's so loud. The water's bloody. Guh, shut up!"

"Water? Dean?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Just stop, quit washing—"

Sam pressed Dean's head tighter, hoping the pressure helped. "Just hang on, man. Ride it through."

Dean sagged back, mouth open in harsh breathing, skin flushed and sweaty.

Sam's heartbeat thundered in his head, sifting through what had just happened. Unknowingly, Dean had just given him their best clue.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"I think I know what this is." Swiveling off the bed, Sam grabbed the laptop off the desk and sank into the chair, his leg bouncing while he waited for the computer to power on.

"What is it?" Jo sank onto the arm of the chair, leaning close to see into the screen.

Sam typed _bean nighe_ into the search bar.

"A banshee?" Jo questioned. "How do you figure?"

"Dean said she was washing."

Frowning, Jo shook her head.

"Look. Banshees are sometimes called washers at the ford. They hang around deserted streams and wash blood from the clothes of those who are about to die."

Jo's hand curled onto Sam's bicep. "Is Dean?"

Sam jolted. "No," he snapped a little too brittle. "No. I don't think she's foretelling it. I think she's causing it."

The webpage loaded to an artist's rendition of an old woman in a wispy green gown and long grey hair with a veil covering her hollowed out features. Sam scrolled down to the article.

"There's butt-loads of legends about them from all over the world. _Bean sidhe, bean nighe, siths._ They show up as beautiful young woman or sometimes old hags, sometimes naked carrying a bowl of blood. Could be a fairy, could be a ghost."

"Then how do we narrow it down?" Exasperation coated Jo's voice.

"Dean already did." Sam brought up a link that showed a drawing depicting a woman bent over a blood-stained cloak of a Scotman's plaid. Her shoulders were curled inward in sorrow. Long silver hair flowed over the scrubbing board and into the flowing stream. "We're dealing with a spirit. A very powerful, very insane spirit."

"You know this how?"

Sam tapped the screen and Jo read, "…spirits of women who either died giving birth or were murdered."

"Or whose murder was made to look like a suicide," Sam interrupted.

Jo met his gaze before continuing reading. "These poor souls are doomed to wash the blood of the dying…" She stopped, sat back. "You think this is the ghost of some woman who was murdered?"

"Yep. Her death was probably made to look like a suicide."

"That's good. Sam, that's the best news ever. Spirits are easy to get rid of."

Sam glanced up at her. "Not after they've morphed into a banshee. Even if we could pinpoint who the woman was and what's keeping her spirit earthbound, a woman who has become a banshee is a whole other entity. I'm not sure they have any humanity left or remember who they once were, so taking care of any remains won't really stop her."

"But she's attached to Dean?" Jo flung off the chair arm and went to the bed, taking a defensive position near the unconscious hunter. "How do we get rid of her before she makes Dean-?" Her skin paled.

Shaking his head, Sam clicked on another link, hoping to find answers. "I have no idea."

#

"…can't go alone."

"No choice."

Quiet voices rolled across Dean, a welcome difference to the woman who'd been screaming in his head for hours. He blinked his eyes open to the dim interior. The only source of light came from the lamp on the other side of the room. Groggy, he turned toward the hushed sounds.

Sam and Jo stood near the door, talking in hushed whispers. Sam's fingers curled loosely around the strap of the equipment pack on his shoulder. He looked like he was about to walk out the door—without him.

Dean rasped out his brother's name like broken glass grating across asphalt. He shifted to get up and found his arms immobile, stretched above his head. The hell? Tugging proved his arms were bound tight with ripped-up terry-cloth no less. Which didn't make sense. Jo and his brother were right there. Why would he be tied up? Demon possession?

"Sam," he said again, going for more volume this time, yet his voice still came out rougher than a toad's croak.

Jo's and Sam's faces both turned toward him.

Sam was at his side in seconds. "Hey. You with me this time?"

"Yeah." Dean pulled against the bindings and pain fluttered up through his shoulder. That was new. Glancing down he saw the bandage taped to his skin. "Wanna step off the kink train and untie me?"

"Dean," Sam huffed, but didn't make a move to loosen the towel strips at his wrists.

Dean noted the stiffness to Sam's shoulders, the tightness to his mouth. "What's going on?"

Jo stood behind Sam. "You tried to kill yourself. Twice."

"What? No. I wouldn't do that."

"I know." Sam ran a hand back through his hair. "Of course we know that. It wasn't you, but…" Kid's eyes were flitting around, landing everywhere but on Dean. He shook his head. "I'm going to fix it, okay. We know what it is now, and…you're gonna be okay. You're not hearing the keening right now, are you?"

"Keening?" What the hell kind of word was keening? Oh, God. He should have known. "Banshee?"

Sam finally met his gaze. Crap. So not good.

"Please tell me that brainiac head of yours figured out how to stop it."

"I…I'm going to take care of it." Which was code for _I'm winging it, man_.

"Sam, no." Dean pulled at his bindings, twisting on the bed. His younger brother was going out there to face a banshee alone just hoping that something he tried worked. "Untie me and we'll do this together."

"Uh-give you a weapon so she can make you turn it on yourself? Not happening." Sam lunged away from the mattress and as fluidly Jo took his place, watching the exchange with a distraught expression.

"Then take Jo with." Desperation coated Dean's tone. He did not have a good feeling about this. "Sam, do not go alone!"

Sam opened the door, pausing to glance back over his shoulder. "I'll be okay." And walked out the door.

#

"Jo, untie me. You untie me right now."

"You know I can't do that."

"Please. Sam's going to get himself killed."

"I—" He saw the hesitation in her eyes, the worry. Dammit, Sam really didn't have much of a plan and she knew it. She'd probably never have let Sam go off on his own either if whatever had happened to him hadn't freaked them both out so much.

"Jo, I'm in my right head now. No crazy screaming banshees. You need to let me go so I can help my brother."

Her palm slid over his wrists, lingered. Dean stilled, waiting for her to release him. She shook her head. "I want to, believe me."

Dean raised his head up. "He needs me."

"He needs you to stay alive," she snapped. "Dean, you tried to stab a broken glass into your heart."

Dean quieted, searching her features for the exaggeration, even knowing Jo never embellished for flights of fancy. It had to have been bad for her usually cool demeanor to have cracked. And another thing: if he had tried to stab himself, was intent on it, he would have succeeded.

He studied the girl sitting at the side of the bed anew, noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt. A dark worm of doubt slithered around in his belly. "Did I hurt you?"

She looked away. Answer enough.

Dean's mind whirled through a thousand scenarios, none of them good. He hated the thought of being so out of his head that he didn't know what he was doing—couldn't remember doing it or controlling it—damn supernatural beings were bad enough when they weren't jacking with your brain. Vulcan mind-melding was crossing the line.

He wasn't anywhere cool that the banshee was out to make him hurt himself, but he figured he had enough mind over matter self-control, now that he knew what was going on, if he felt that overpowering desolation start to hit, he could stop, handcuff himself or something until it passed—and still be able to provide back-up for Sam, but… his gaze raked down Jo's slim form, the hunched over shoulders like she was trying to pull into herself. He couldn't take the chance on hurting her.

Which he suspected had already happened…or close to it. Except for being out of sorts, she didn't appear to have any injuries, but if she and Sam felt the need to tie him down… Dean's throat worked, trying to swallow past the dryness of his mouth.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Jo's eyes ticked down to his.

"Keep the ropes on." He twisted his wrists around the terry-cloth. "Or whatever. I'll remain tied." Like he had any choice in the matter. Well, okay he did provided she took her eyes off him long enough for him to work on the strips binding his wrists together. Wouldn't be the first time.

"But you go." He couldn't believe he was asking her that when he wanted her as far from this case as possible.

Jo shook her head.

"Jo, I'll be okay here. I will. But Sam's out there alone."

"I know." Her palm struck the mattress, obviously as frustrated as he was with the situation. "Sam was adamant that someone stay with you."

"I'll bet he was."

Jo smiled weakly, trying to be brave for him. "Do you want some water?"

He wasn't swaying her. "I want my brother safe."

"You think I don't?" She swung off the bed so quickly her hair flew around her shoulders. "But right now you're in more danger than he is."

"I'm n—"

"You are!" Her shoulders lifted with a huge shuddering breath.

"What happens when that she-witch screams at Sam? That's all it takes, Jo, one top-of-her-lungs scream and the kid's banshee goo. I can't believe he went off without me. And you let him."

"Let him? I'm not the one who let the banshee get the drop on me in the first place. I can't believe you're turning all this into my fault now. Jo turned away, her spine ramrod straight as she marched to the sink to get some water. Her eyes blazed as she came back and sat on the bed with the water.

Dean lifted his head to drink, noting she brought one of the paper coffee cups instead of one of the short cups made of glass.

She put the cup to his lips and tilted it for him.

He shifted his head when he finished and stared up at her. "I don't blame you."

Her gaze sought his, remained as though searching for the truth. She still held the cup at an angle. Water dropped onto Dean's bare chest, trickling down toward his navel.

Jo glanced away, her gaze flitting about the room until she came back to him. Her cool palm slipped onto his cheek. Jo's eyes had darkened, her lips parted on a soft gasp and Dean's blood warmed, streaming like fire through his veins as the girl lowered to him, wisp-light lips tracing over his forehead, his nose, his mouth.

The rest of the water spilled over him and Dean growled low in his throat at the coolness splashing his heated chest.

Jo pulled back. "I've wanted to do that forever."

"Get back here." Dean strained his head upward, his wrists pulling against the damn terry-cloth.

Grinning wickedly, Jo plunged downward, her mouth impatient this time, devouring his.

He kissed back, matching her intensity, wanting this, wanting her. Her hands slid along his torso, feeling the bumps of his ribcage, driving him crazy. He yanked against his bonds, desperate to pull her closer, feel the silk of her skin. She moved to the dip between his neck and jaw, hot mouth and cool breath streaming over him.

Letting his head fall back to the pillow, Dean gave into her exploration until her hand moved over the bandage taped over his collarbone, stilled.

She drew herself up, staring at the gauze, at the seeping blood. Her hair fell to each side of her puzzled face like curtains.

"I…" She pushed up farther, scooting back, her hip toward his knee. Her eyes snapped up toward his wrists and her face reddened. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Not complaining here."

The hard line of her lips softened and a new stream of warmth poured through Dean at what those lips had been doing to him.

"It's just not the right time." She had him there. "Our emotions are too keyed up with everything."

True. Dean frowned, wondering how much was just being _keyed up_ on her part.

He was about to say something flippant when she smiled. "Try again when Sam gets back?" Her face reddened even more. "I mean, not while Sam's here, but, you know, after we know he's safe…and you're safe…and it's over and…" She groaned and spun off the bed, stomping to the other side of the room where she just stood there with her arms folded beneath her breasts. For a moment Dean thought she might actually start banging her head against the wall.

He started laughing, the lightness of it easing the tightness of his chest. She looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Absolutely." He knew the grin he gave her was nothing short of cocky. "I'll even buy you dinner first."

She rolled her eyes. "Jerk."

And an image of Sam out there in the dark on his own instantly filled Dean's mind. What the hell was he thinking?

#

Sam didn't have many options. As far as research went, there wasn't any way to kill a banshee. They were permanent parts of the supernatural world that you just hoped you didn't come across—and prayed even harder that you didn't hear her cry.

Parked in front of the large vacant house, Sam opened the trunk. A light rain splattered droplets across the back of Sam's T-shirt. Man, had they gotten it wrong. Not a regular ghost at all, but a banshee.

The dark house loomed against the night sky in shadow. Sam pulled out the coffee tin they kept religious relics in, sifting through a few saint medals, an ankh, and a star of David for the little Celtic cross. It was a long shot, but one site mentioned that placing the cross over thresholds or beneath pillows could hold off the banshee's curse for a while. He wished he'd left one with Dean.

He hooked the little cross around a long dog-tag chain and dropped it around his neck. Couldn't hurt. He paused to peer into the gloom. The sensation of being watched prickled across the back of his neck. Good. He wanted—needed—the banshee to be around.

He also needed to get close enough without getting caught in her curse.

Sam ran his teeth across his bottom lip and rummaged through the trunk for the old ear plugs they hadn't used in years that Dean had pilfered from a target range. He frowned at the set of earplugs, thinking hard. He couldn't be sure the plugs could protect against a banshee's wail. They didn't totally block out gunshots either, just muffled them. He also pulled out the headset-looking ear mufflers they'd picked up working an airport gig. Guys working near running jet engines wore them and Dean had thought they were cool.

Using either or both of these together was a risk. They just didn't cut out everything and who knew what frequency wavelength a banshee registered. It was better than nothing though. He just wished he had a jet engine running nearby. You couldn't hear anything over that noise.

Wait. His hands froze on the open lid of false trunk. Of course. That's it. A laugh pooled inside his chest. He tossed the earplugs back into the box, keeping the mufflers and ran around to the side of the Impala, leaning in the window to get at the glove compartment.

_Please be charged up_.

Grabbing his little used iPod, he powered it on. _Yes! _He scrolled through his albums until he found the list he'd secretly made for Dean in the event the ancient cassette deck bit the dust. Heaven help them both then if his brother didn't have his tunes.

He placed the earbuds in his ears then settled the mufflers over the top of those and scrolled the volume up to the highest level he could stand without exploding his eardrums.

With George Thorogood rasping about the day he was born, Sam walked around the side of the large house toward the shadowy line of trees.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Jo sat on the bed next to Dean, legs stretched out along his, pillows wedged between her back and the headboard as she flipped through channels on the television, not really watching anything.

Dean had fallen asleep again. She toyed with untying his wrists while he was out to move them into another position and rub them for circulation, but she knew he'd wake up the moment she did. Couldn't risk it.

For the thousandth time, she glanced at Dean's cell phone lying silent on the bedside table and willed Sam to call with the reassuring news that the banshee was taken care of and he was okay. This waiting around was ridiculous and for a moment she got why her mom was so adamant against her hunting. Not knowing what was going on grated across her already frayed nerves. She should be out there hunting this thing, figuring out a way to get rid of it herself.

This was her first job dammit!

The Winchesters _would_ have to shove their way into her gig and Dean _would_ have to go and get himself attacked by a make-you-go-crazy-and-kill-yourself banshee.

Her heart squeezed. _Oh Dean_.

She splayed her palm over his chest to monitor his even breathing, worry gnawing at her belly. He had to beat this thing. He _could_ beat this thing. He had the strongest will of anyone she'd ever known. Her lips curved upward. Too strong at times.

Dean Winchester was the most headstrong, stubborn, royal pain in the…and she'd kissed him. God, she couldn't help herself. Heat flushed through her veins thinking about it, about the way he kissed her back, all hunger and claiming. When she pulled away his eyes had zeroed in on her like he could clutch her back through magnetism and will alone.

And hadn't that been about right?

What was she thinking? Letting her guard down like that? She was drawn to Dean like no one else before. No one else had the power to break her heart the way Dean could either. Inevitably would if she wasn't careful.

She smoothed damp hair off his forehead. Who was she kidding? She was already fruit loops over the guy. Every time he came to the Roadhouse and then left again it hurt.

Jo edged off the bed, pulling away both physically and emotionally and ran to the bathroom where she splashed cool water over her face, fortifying her resolve. She stared at her wet face in the mirror.

She was a Hunter. A damn fine one.

She was not a silly little girl, pining for the slightest notice from one Dean Winchester—never mind how her heart sped up and heat raced across her skin every time he looked at her.

Taking a steadying breath, Jo stepped out of the bathroom and came face to face with Dean's chest. Before she could think, he shoved her back into the bathroom against the counter.

#

The wind picked up, tearing through the trees. Wet leaves kicked up beneath Sam's boots. The iPod switched to the next track and Sam flinched at Robert Plant's sudden wailing cry, mistaking it for the banshee.

Blowing out on a shaky exhale, Sam braced himself. His heart pounded in rhythm with the staccato riff of Zeppelin's guitars. Sweat or rain water or both pooled between his palm and the shotgun and Plant crooned about the hammer of the gods driving their ships forward from the land of ice and snow.

The rain poured harder, riding the wind on a slant, soaking Sam to the bone as he walked against the thrashing air currents. The skin prickled at his neck and he spun around, nearly slipping on the wet leaf-litter to peer into the charged darkness behind him.

It was eerie—dangerous—walking through a howling storm unable to listen to anything above the blasting music. In normal circumstances, not being able to hear movement in his surroundings could get him killed.

But this circumstance was about as far from normal as it could get.

Swinging back, Sam strode forward, determination thundering with each step, coiling his muscles when he saw the little stream, swollen with rain water and flowing more rapidly than it had before.

Fingers curling harder around the sawed-off—not that salt rounds were any good against a banshee—Sam followed the flow of water to the spot they'd found Dean lying facedown in the dirt and glanced around. Except for the trees and vegetation, the area was empty. No screaming apparition. No washer woman. No sign of animal life either though that didn't mean much. With the rain shower they would have gone to ground anyway.

_How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore. _

She had to be here. His brother's life depended on it.

Sam flung his hands wide, hoping to draw her out. "Come out and get me!" he shouted, unable to hear if his voice carried over the storm.

Nothing.

Temptation to pull the mufflers and earbuds away rolled through him. He needed all his working senses. What if the woman's weeping flowed through the thicket right now, drawing him to her like she had Dean, but he missed it?

One hand swept up to the headset, the other bringing the shotgun forward. Resisting, Sam let his hand drop from his head, leaving the mufflers in place and followed along the stream. As a conduit for all things on the spirit wavelength, staying near the water was his best bet, especially looking for a fabled washer woman of the ford.

Rain pelted him. His soaked T-shirt clung like a second skin.

A chill colder than the rain skittered up his spine like frozen fingers.

Sam spun back around and saw her.

Right there where he'd just been, where he and Jo found Dean.

Her back to him, she crouched over a wooden bucket, her slim arms moved back and forth, scrubbing bloody jeans across the ridges of a slanted washing board. The wind whipped her silver hair around her slight form. Tremors ran through her. Her shoulders hitched up and down from obvious weeping that Sam couldn't hear behind the electric whine of Page and Bonham.

Pulling the Celtic cross from around his neck, Sam held it out in front of him and edged toward her.

The gray gown billowed up in a sudden lift of wind. He eased forward, the cross nearly touching the back of the spirit's head. Leaves swirled between them. His heart thundered with the pulse of the music.

Sam leaned closer.

The woman disappeared.

He stumbled forward, hitting his toe against the wooden bucket, making pinkish water slosh over the sides.

He spun, swiping the cross outward in an arc.

The woman reappeared, her face inches from his neck, her mouth pulled back in a soundless scream.

Sam plunged the cross into her chest, his hand slipping through her insubstantial form and burying the Celtic symbol into her lungs and…nothing happened.

Eyes wide, Sam stared down at her and swung the shotgun up, but before he got off a shot, the apparition's arm slammed forward and Sam sailed backwards, hitting against something solid—had to be a tree—and bounced to the ground, gun and cross flying out of his hands.

#

"Dean!"

How did he get loose? She never should have taken her eyes off him for a second. Jo's butt squashed against the bathroom counter, her spine arcing back with the hard length of out-of-his-head Dean pressing into her.

His sweaty chest moved up and down, pulling in hard ragged breaths. His lips were slightly parted, throat working and his wild eyes flitted about the small space, never landing long on any one thing. Until…

Jo knew the moment he found it though she doubted he even registered what he'd been seeking. Her purse.

Leaving her weapons bag safely locked in the trunk of her car, the only other weapons in the hotel, besides Dean's knife she'd hidden behind the television cabinet, were her own knife and Glock she carried in her purse, which she'd purposely stashed on the tank of the toilet in the bathroom to keep away from Dean. _Great job on that,_ she raked herself over the coals.

He lunged forward and she shoved him back with everything she had. The force rammed him out the door and into the wall. No way was he going to get his hands on a weapon.

She let the momentum carry her forward and flung her arm across his collar bone to hold him in place. "Dean! Stop it!" Her voice was guttural with fear.

In a move she couldn't identify, Dean yanked her wrist forward, spinning her around in a smooth circle that shoved her out of his way. He lunged toward the bathroom again, but his speed was no match for a woman who was scared out of her wits.

Completing the spin he'd sent her on, Jo dove in front of him, tripping him up and they fell forward, sliding on the bunching bathroom rug. As though she wasn't even there, Dean clamored over her, reaching up for the purse, but Jo wrapped her arms around his hips, twisting her legs around his and hung on, keeping him on the floor.

But even under a banshee's spell, the guy was determined. He stretched, knees digging against the floor, feet pressing against the tub and counter for stability while he twisted, trying to throw whatever was stopping him—which happened to be her—off. Her elbow jarred hard against the tub, sending a streak of lightening through her arm, loosening her hold.

Dean's long body surged upward. _No no, nuh-uh_. Twisting around, Jo grabbed hold of Dean's legs and pulled, wincing at the crack of his chin on the toilet's edge as he flew back, finger snagged in her purse strap and the contents of her bag spilled across the floor—cosmetics, phone, paperback, mirror, tissues, mints, knife… Gun.

Dazed, Sam blinked and struggled upward, one hand pushing against the pebbles at the bottom of the rushing stream. He made it to all fours and the banshee ripped him from the soggy ground.

Slight though she was, she held him aloft like he weighed nothing. Her fingers dug into his head, substantial enough to do damage, thumbs curling into his temples. Sam swung out, arms passing through her head like water. How was that fair? Spirit matter trailed his arms, pulling from her face and shoulders, making her blur like an abstract painting. Sam's legs bicycled in the air, finding even less to connect with.

Rain slapped them. The wind flung the banshee's hair forward into Sam's face and then back again to stream behind her.

The banshee lowered him toward her. Her pupils flashed red, flaming pinpricks Sam couldn't look away from. He struggled to get out of her iron grip. It was all so surreal, the storm lashing around them while pulsating drums and straining guitars screamed through the earbuds. The banshee's lips curled back in a snarl—no, in the beginnings of a scream.

The iPod gave a silent click, scanning to the next track. Suddenly the storm was in his ears. The wind wailed, rain pounded the ground and trees, making branches snap and crack.

A low vibration rumbled through Sam's bones like an electrical current. The barest edge of a shriek assaulted Sam's head, blinding him to everything as the specter blurred in front of him and his vision faded. The screech changed tone, pulsing through him…and was cut off abruptly by the opening drums of Breaking Benjamin's _Evil Angel. _

Blinking out of the sudden stupor, Sam punched the banshee again with the same non-effect of passing right through her. Her mouth hinged impossibly wide with her keening shriek. But the music was working. As long as Sam couldn't hear her cry, it no longer had any effect on him.

The banshee pulled him as close as a lover, mouth impossibly wide in a pulsing scream. Frigid breath washed over him. The vibrations rolled across his skin in tingles. Her eyes widened, the glow within them dulling and changing to brown as her brows pinched together in confusion.

Without warning, she hurled Sam to the side. He slammed to the ground like a rag doll, all floppy limbs and air pummeled out of his lungs. He heaved in a breath at the same time an invisible force flung him back, rolling him in the tumultuous air to land with jarring force in the stream. He blinked up at the woman standing demurely above him, her gown flapping around her, a smug smile curving her lip.

He was in a crapload of trouble. The banshee didn't have to _shriek_ him to death. She was more than strong enough to bat him around and let the trees and ground break him like a ball caught in a pinball machine. And he still didn't know how to get her curse off his brother.

#

Loud. So damn miserably loud. All Dean knew was that he had to get to that gun to make it all stop. It all had to stop. Everything. It would be okay then, everything would be just fine once he got the gun and made it all stop.

His head hammered with the noise, every tendon of his being trembling and focused on getting hold of that weapon though he didn't understand why exactly that was so important—just that he had to. He couldn't think beyond anything past the painful assault in his brain.

Yet something was trying to stop him, pulling, keeping him away from the shiny little Glock that meant everything. He kicked out blindly, hearing a pained exclamation that drilled down through the noise, shocking his senses. That shouldn't be right, should it? What was happening? He didn't understand what was going on.

A new surge of pain erupted behind his eyes, making the edges of his sight go dark and murky and he slammed his fists against his forehead, trying to press the agony away. _Shut up shut up shut up!_ The urge to grab the gun, make it all go away intensified, crushing all other thought beneath grinding agony. _Get the gun, it will stop_. Nothing else was as important as getting the damn gun. Nothing else mattered.

With a roar of pain, Dean elbow-crawled forward, dragging the pulling weight wrapped across his legs with him. Vaguely, he heard other screams below the screech of the woman pulsating through his head.

Shaking, he winced against it. Sweat dripped from his hair, caking his forehead as he stretched, cracking his bones, growling with effort and…

His hand curled over the cold metal of the gun.

The shrieking ripped through him, tensing his shuddering muscles so tightly he thought they'd tear. He lay on his stomach panting, holding the gun—his prize—without knowing why or what was supposed to happen next. Something. It was crucial.

A horrific whine punched through his skull and instinctively to protect himself against it, Dean brought his quaking hands back to his head. He barely felt the cold hard muzzle dig into his heated cheek, didn't realize his finger quivered near the trigger.

#

Sam crashed headfirst into the bush, falling through thin pointy branches that snagged and tore through his clothes and skin. Twisting, gaining more scratches, he clawed out of the brush on all fours, scrabbling to get away from the furious banshee, the classical rock strains mimicking the wild thuds of his heart.

She was hurling him around like a shot-put. His battered body couldn't take much more. He still didn't know how to stop her and help Dean. Between being thrown around and rattling landings, he could barely think. He had to get out of here. Getting himself killed wouldn't help his brother. They needed another plan.

He staggered to his feet and was immediately hauled backwards and slammed against a tree, the breath knocked out of him. Bark dug into his back. Pinned by nothing he could see, the banshee floated toward him and locked her hands around his throat, further choking off air.

Red eyes bore into his, her face a gruesome husk of mottled rage. He grabbed for her wrists to pull her hands off him, but he couldn't get a hold, kept passing right through her arms like clawing through frigid streams of air.

Black sparklers exploded across his vision, his lungs compressing to draw in life-saving oxygen. Benjamin Burnley crooned of _surrender, surrender_.

The banshee's mouth opened wide, lips trembling in a scream Sam couldn't hear. …_ can't I breathe, evil ang…_ Mist curled out of her throat, washing cold across Sam's face like smoke blown from a cigarette. Blinking hard against both the eerie vapor and the rain water, Sam worried if seeing the scream was as deadly as hearing it, though with his vision blurring and unable to pull in a breath neither would be a problem much longer.

He felt his back slide against the tree, his strength waning, arms flopping to his sides with only the banshee's brutal hold dragging him up. His eyelids fluttered, obstinate determination to not give in the only thing keeping him conscious.

The banshee slapped out, snapping Sam's head to the side. His teeth tore through his lip. Her nostrils flared, chest heaving up and down in frustrated pants and shoved him away. Sam hit the ground hard, the last of his air pummeled from his lungs.

He rolled onto his back, sucking air into his swollen throat and saw a wall of leaves and branches crashing down on him. Rolling again, Sam scrambled away and more branches flew at him.

_Crap, crap!_ Tired of batting him around the trees, the she-devil was throwing the trees at him!

Crawling across mud and wet leaves, Sam's hand fell upon the Celtic cross. He grabbed it up on a spin and an ancient log rammed into his side and plowed him across the ground, mud spraying his face, ripping the ear mufflers off and driving him into the shallow stream. His head banged against the washer woman's bucket.

Coughing out water, Sam turned to his back at the same moment a mass of bark slammed down on him.

TBC


	6. Final

Chapter Six

"Dean. Listen to me." A soft voice floated to him, strained in fear. Jo?

He rocked onto his knees, scooting across the cold tile, cool metal pressed into the hollow of his cheek. He was friggin holding a gun to his head. Shaking, he couldn't let go, had to pull the trigger so the lady in his head would shut up. Shut the freakin hell up. This was all so wrong.

"Jo?" He spoke her name like a sob. Like a wounded animal. This was all so wrong. He just needed the banshee to stop screaming so he could think, figure this out. He moved the gun to his temple, hitting the side of the barrel over and over against his head as though he could beat the screeching out of his brain.

Hands closed over his, trying to wrench the gun from his grasp.

No! He needed it. He had to stop the screaming. Had to! Lunging forward, he threw his attacker backward and fell over the top of it. Sprawled over the thing trying to yank his salvation away, Dean wrestled for the weapon. The banshee's shriek intensified, drilling a hole in his head. Everything went out of focus except for the shiny gun. But the monster wasn't letting go. He dragged the gun around, the other set of hands locked around it. He got the muzzle turned, burrowing into his chest. His finger pulled.

#

Everything hurt. Water gurgled and sputtered over Sam's legs. The wind shrieked, slapping slender branches from the tree pressing across him. Guitars whined from a distorted distance. He'd lost the iPod in his desperate scramble and the music was blaring through the earbuds somewhere.

Pushing up, Sam bit back a cry, a spike of pain radiating from his side, but the tree covering him lifted a bit. With effort he could scoot out. Where was the banshee? He looked around, craning his neck to see through the bouncing branches and leaves. The washing bucket sat tilted near his head, wind-whipped suds splashing over the side.

He had to get out of here. Without the earbuds he had no protection against the banshee. Nothing. His shotgun was out of reach under the fallen trees somewhere. He still had the little Celtic cross gripped tightly in his grasp. Great. He'd managed to hold onto the most useless thing.

Sam lifted his head and shoulders out of the mud, clenching his jaw against an abrupt flare of pain. Breathing through it, he dragged himself backwards, sloshing his hips through the water. _Live to fight another day_. He groaned, pulling his foot loose from—whatever it was that was pinning it. Tangled tree limbs he supposed.

He almost had it free, would be able to scoot out from under this tree…if he could just twist his ankle…a…little…more…

The shriek drilled inside his head with the force of an electric screwdriver. His muscles clenched, spine went rigid. Shaking with effort, he clamped his palms over his ears. It was incredibly loud, stealing thoughts and images. All Sam could focus on was that keening screech. Resembling the moan of a bird and shattering glass, the sound pulsated into him, a possession of limb and heart, body and mind. He was helpless against it, constrained within a pressing barrage of noise and crushing vibration that closed around him, squeezing tighter and tighter like the coils of an anaconda.

He screamed, the slight sound torn away beneath the ratcheting keen in his head. If this was even half of what Dean had been going through, small wonder his brother had been out of his head batshit crazy.

_Nuuh, Dean._

Sam couldn't give in to this. If he did, his brother would die.

He pulled his eyes open, blinking through tears of effort. The banshee stood near his thigh, gray skirt flowing like incandescent smoke through the fallen tree. Tears streamed down her cheeks, no longer angry though her pupils sparked red and her mouth stretched in an elongated cry.

Sam had to do something. He couldn't just let her keen at him until he went crazy and tried to off himself too.

Clenched muscles trembling, he lifted the cross toward her skirt, even knowing touching her with it hadn't helped before. Shaking his head as though that could pull him from the stupor, Sam suddenly twisted, stretching, screaming at the hitch in his side and plunged his fist, Celtic cross and all, into the washing bucket.

And the shriek intensified a thousandfold. Sam bucked against the assault, every cell in his body on the verge of exploding.

The water in the bucket churned, spitting outward. Sam plunged his hand in all the way to the bottom, his body curled over. The wind kicked up and the banshee screamed. Her hair billowed upward. Coils of snapping light crackled around her, slapping outward like whips. Sam flinched beneath each strike that hit him. The wet ground sizzled.

With a last deafening shriek, the banshee arched backward and exploded in a blinding funnel of light.

#

The banshee's shriek intensified, shrilling through Dean's head with terrible strength and then abruptly stopped.

Head pounding, he blinked rapidly in an attempt to right his vision. Slowly everything settled into a wavery view.

He lay sprawled upon Jo. Strands of hair stuck to her face, wet with sweat and tears. Her jaw was clenched tight and she suddenly wrenched the gun that was between them from his lax hands.

"Don't you do it!" she screamed, tears spilling from her distressed eyes.

What had he done?

Dean pushed up onto his elbows, taking some of his weight off her, though he felt nauseous and weak. His palm slipped over her cheek, tracing the bruise at her temple. Her wince was a jolt to his gut. "Jo?"

She pulled the pistol closer to her chest, cradling it with both hands, and blinked up at him. Her throat worked.

"Are you…you?"

"Yeah." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Yeah. I think so. Banshee quit screaming."

Jo frowned, unconvinced. Her glassy eyes were unsure.

They stared at each other, taking inventory. Dean searched his brain for any lingering trace of the banshee. "Sam must have gotten rid of her." He stiffened. _Sam._ His kid brother was out there alone. "Where's my phone?"

#

In the passenger seat, Jo held onto the dashboard with a white-knuckled grip as the car bounced and swerved on the narrow dirt road, pitching her around in the seat.

Dean sped down the road, not seeming to care that he was driving, well, a Porsche nine-eleven GT3. The only thing he cared about was that it was fast and was getting him to his brother.

Spying a huge pothole ahead, Jo shrieked. He swerved around it, getting close to the ditch. Water splashed across the windshield.

"Come on, come on, pick up," he grumbled into the phone pressed to his ear. He'd been calling Sam since they ran out of the hotel, only getting voicemail.

"Dean, we're here," she called out before he drove right by the turnoff. Fishtailing, he swung the Porsche onto the even thinner road, sliding on mud, and quickly correcting for it, straightened the car onto the road. Jo locked her arms tighter against the dash.

Dean pulled in front of the large house, skidding to a stop behind the Impala. He flew out of the car like a bullet, punching Sam's number again as he ran to the monster car, boots slouching in the mud and jerked the door open to look inside.

The glove box was rattling. Leaning over, not caring that he was getting his seat wet, he yanked open the box. Sam's vibrating phone lit up the interior.

"Dammit." Dean slapped his phone shut. "Sam!" he shouted into the storm.

Stiffening her spine, Jo headed around the dark house, sloughing through the soggy grass. Dean's long strides easily caught up as they ran through the backyard and into the trees, racing to the area Dean had first gone in.

"Oh no." Jo ground to a stop.

It looked like a tornado had touched ground and then suddenly lifted off again. Trees and bushes, torn from their roots, lay scattered around the small space.

"Sam!" Dean's voice teetered on the brink of panic.

Without a word, they both scrambled into the destruction, pulling up loose branches. "Sam!" They called out in unison.

"Wait." Jo heard something. Music. Faint and tinny.

Dean stilled, his features laced with worry.

"Here." She followed the sound, pulling through debris, scraping her arm across sharp broken tree limbs, and pulled out . . . an iPod? She lifted it to show Dean.

Frowning, he shook his head and called out for Sam before plowing back into the destruction.

She knew when he found him by the strangled noise Dean made deep in his throat. He started throwing branches and foliage aside. Jo waded through the wreckage to get to them.

"Sam, Sam. Come on." Dean was knee deep in a tangle of branches. A shock of brown hair was visible among torn foliage and leaves. Jo pushed aside tangled bushes and branches, finding a fallen tree across Sam's stomach. His legs were in the churning stream.

"Wake up, come on, Sam." Dean shoved more of the foliage away, his actions jerky with desperation.

Jo unburied Sam's arm from the mud, shocked at how cold he was. "Dean, we got to get him warmed up."

Dean's head snapped up, his gaze zeroing in on the offending log pinning his brother. Pulling his jacket off, he covered Sam's chest and went after the tree. "Help me." He lifted the trunk up a few inches. The stream slurped around Sam, mud crumpling beneath him, sucking him farther into the water.

Jo dug her arms in the mud, hooking her hands beneath Sam's armpits. "Got him. Lift." She pulled while Dean lifted, both grunting, neither giving up until Sam's legs were clear. Jo fell back on her butt, the back of Sam's head hitting her stomach.

Face flushed, Dean plopped down beside them.

"Sam, come on."

Sam's head rolled to the side. Jo curled her arms around him before he slipped off face-first in the mud. He groaned.

Dean edged forward, leaning over them and when Sam's lashes lifted, Jo's breath caught at the sudden transformation of Dean's features.

She'd witnessed firsthand the many and varied sides to one Dean Winchester. Sometimes in hunter mode he could be downright scary while at other times when he allowed his guard to slip, she'd glimpse a rare vulnerability that made every female instinct she possessed want to pull him into her arms and just hold on, and then there were those other moments . . . when he looked at her like she was sure he never looked at any other woman that made her shiver and want to throw caution through the window—but this—this baring of soul that she wouldn't have seen if she wasn't so close to Sam—stunned her.

She'd never have believed so much potent emotion could be conveyed with one look. It physically hurt.

And then it was gone, shuttered away behind an expression of worry and soothing words that she couldn't make out with her world reeling from the intensity of one moment passed between brothers.

"Come on, Sam." The weight was lifted from her legs. Dean drew Sam's arm over his shoulder while the younger man found his footing and together starting climbing through the rubble.

Pausing, Dean looked back. "Jo?" Sam's head slumped lower.

Jo shook herself out of her daze. Sam needed help, the least of which to get warm and there she sat in the mud. Pushing up, she fitted herself beneath Sam's other arm and helped Dean get him through the collision course of fallen trees, past the old house and settled into the back seat of the Impala and covered in every blanket and jacket they had in their respective trunks.

Dean closed the back door and stood in the rain, staring through the window at his younger sibling, an unreadable expression stilling his features.

Jo felt like an intruder even approaching him. "I'll, um, follow you back to the hotel."

He jolted, seeming to come out of his own stupor and shook his head, flinging rain water. "Yeah. We'll . . . " The look he turned on her then was young, hopeful. "He'll be okay?" He said it like a question desperately needing the right answer.

Jo bobbed her head, needing just as desperately to give him that. "Yeah." She smiled, her heart breaking just a little bit more. "He's just cold and tired. He'll be fine."

Dean wiped a hand across his mouth and nodded. "Yeah, okay." His features settled into a sad smile. "Okay." He opened the driver's side door before stilling. "Hey Jo." He finally looked at her. "Thank you."

She shrugged, all sorts of feelings jumping around in her tight belly. "Sure."

Dean grinned and flowed into his car and as the Impala pulled onto the road, Jo wept.

_FIN_

Sam's banshee-fighting playlist:

_Bad to the Bone _by George Thorogood and the Destroyers

_Immigrant Song_ by Led Zeppelin

_Evil Angel_ by Breaking Benjamin


End file.
